


what kind of father would i be

by kivancalcite



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fainting, Gen, Loss of Trust, Murder, Pain, Physical Abuse, Sick Character, Stabbing, Tentacles, Torture, Unconsciousness, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting, boyyy he may be half celestial but that light isn't making him half as sick, it's a light tendril but it still counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28925187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivancalcite/pseuds/kivancalcite
Summary: A short one shot I wrote back at the end of 2018, Peter's at the usual tail end of Ego's light tendrils and in a great deal of pain, but that wouldn't stop him from letting his feelings out as he fights a losing battle. Of course, it's something else with what the pain and sickness translates to when he's let go, something that he also can't win against despite his will to survive.
Relationships: Ego the Living Planet & Peter Quill
Kudos: 6





	what kind of father would i be

“She trusted you, and you killed her!!”

Peter couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down his face as he screamed this at his monster of a father. He was furious, he was so utterly distraught at the audacity of this man, and all he could do was scream these words at this man in front of him who killed her as he knelt in the middle of this ornate room that he’d been in god knows how long with a few tendrils of light already driven into his head.

And when he screamed that, he felt another lightning bolt of pain shoot through his head as another one made a beeline straight for his left temple. He was shaking, trying to breathe as agonised tears sprang uncontrollably from his eyes. He bit down another deep gasp of pain as it rose, wishing he could try and stop showing how much it really hurt. But he guessed otherwise - Ego’s other purpose involved wanting to see how what he was doing was hurting him, and he wasn’t going to stop until he finally managed to get him to show it.

“Trust is such a petty mortal thing. You should learn to let go of these in time. Don’t pretend you’re not above them, or do I have to keep driving this lesson into your head for you to understand?”

Funny, Peter thought bitterly. He acted so nice, and for this to be who he really was, it was sadly grating. He had such barely restrained anger and cruelty in his voice; Peter was reminded of a father abusing his child under the pretence of “discipline”.

“I think you’ve made that obvious,” Peter laughed, shaking, “you just want me to think any goodness is pathetic and sentimental. I may be immortal, but I am not above being good, and I am certainly not you.”

His words slowly became laced with anger as he continued, spitting it like acid by the end of it. And though he could feel that steel gaze in his chest as he said it, he held it together with a sense of his own purpose even if he could feel his own heart beating so painfully inside him.

But it was almost as if time had completely stopped - not until he saw a smirk rise from his lips, and heard him laugh.

Peter did not have time to comprehend the meaning of this response before a sudden tendril of light pierced through his chest and he felt himself letting the most excruciating and prolonged cry of pain escape him. He couldn’t breathe. The burning sensation, like a hot knife through his chest, made all the movements he made absolutely hurt. And combined with the almost instant drain on his energy, he felt on the verge of collapse, only able to make virtually silent whimpers of pain in the process.

Although, if only Ego would let him collapse. He didn’t care about his dignity, not in front of him. At least then he wasn’t being tortured and used for his benefit. Just collapse limply on this cold marble floor and leave it at that. But he knew Ego wouldn’t let him. Any time he couldn’t be used as a benefit to this monster, was time wasted. He held the cards, and the only thing Peter had right now was his words and his anger - shame he didn’t have much strength to bring them to the surface, though.

“Peter…I don’t think you could be more mistaken. What kind of a father would I be to let you say that? I doubt any child of mine would be of sound mind to reject the possibility of immortality; there’s no point in being like everybody else. And…if you’re going to be so bold as to think with your heart over your mind, it seems appropriate to show you just how wrong you are through it. I knew sooner or later I’d find something to end up hearing those pathetic screams of pain from my own son…destined to do great things and to be part of something bigger; I should’ve known just how much you take on such petty, mortal habits such as… _feelings_.”

His eyesight was now drifting, unfocused. He thought this could be one horrible dream. He wanted to believe that that wasn’t…him, kneeling right close to the side of his face, that wasn’t his hand resting just a bit too heavily on his shoulder, that wasn’t his breath on his neck, and that wasn’t him saying those certain things in that now low, menacing, self-satisfied voice of his…but it was clear he couldn’t ignore the presence of someone who turned out to be the entire planet. He felt violated, he felt angry, he was begging to not let these feelings be so imprisoned and freely lunge at and attack this monster, who was now invading his space, his mind, his own bodily autonomy. He couldn’t even scream even if he tried, although the sensation of tears escaping his eyes and running down his face, despite how uncontrollable they were, were both some semblance of relief and his own identity, thoughts, feelings forcing through that barrier and attempting to let themselves be known about the real things going on inside in a quite literal cry for help.

He felt the tendril driven further through him, and he managed to choke out a series of audible agonised gasps verging on sobs. His vision blurred, and he had the strangest sensation that he felt like he was about to die. Ego was torturing him, bleeding him dry, watching him fall apart and _enjoying_ it - but he had lost so much strength in these moments that he felt powerless to stop him and what he was doing to him. 

And with what felt like forever, the tendrils broke free from him, from his head, from his chest, and he could feel lightheaded, weak and sick. Everything ached, but it felt almost effortless for Ego to drag him to his feet by one of his forearms, letting go of him and backing off a few steps the moment he was upright.

The move kinda felt a little orchestrated though, like everything that this…man did, because he could not predict just how suddenly his legs were not keeping him upright and he stumbled, quickly collapsing into the unwanted arms of his monstrous father.

“I’m only showing what’s best for you. I didn’t know how else you’d understand.”

That false sentimentality, false care in his own natural, deep voice of his made Peter sick. But his head was swimming, and he could barely function as it was. So there he was, leaning heavily against him, face buried between his neck and shoulder with arms wrapped just a little too tight around him, wishing he wasn’t in this twisted parody of a child being comforted by a parent and instead was being held by his mother after one terrible, awful dream that seemed just a little too real for him to cope with.

And it seemed fortunate that it didn’t last long, but it wasn’t fortunate that he was able to break free from that hold after murmuring the words “I think I’m gonna be sick…” into that man’s neck. In one swift moment, he was halfway bent and the bile he felt rise up his throat was now spattering against the marble floor in what disturbing combination of vomit and blood. Dazed, half-panicked, he stared at the contents of his insides before flicking his eyes up to the now clearly disgusted face of his vile father, who actually managed to look quite horrified at the same time, as if this was one thing he didn’t somehow expect to happen when he was torturing his own son.

He was then taken aback further at just how pale he was, and the fact that he was also bleeding heavily from his nose. 

“You’re _bleeding_?? What kind of curse is it, to have a damned son with human and Celestial blood that’s now _all over my floor??_ ”

That incredulous, contemptuous tone in his voice rung in his ears. It was sickening and tragic to hear this man, this man who was his own biological father, referring to his own son this way. He bitterly set his face as much as he could, feeling himself shake despite this firmness.

“Well,” he swallowed thickly, “whose fault was that?”

The last thing he remembered was seeing the sudden shift to anger in that monster before he collapsed face-first, blacking out before he even managed to hit the floor.


End file.
